


The Haunted Tower

by LadyRhiyana



Series: The tale of Squire!Brienne [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drunken confessions and old ghosts, Gen, Honour is what you make it, Jaime Lannister's moral philosophy, What's Past Is Prologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 07:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18869050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: Finally, after long days of burning heat and hard travel, they came upon a ruined, blackened tower.“The Tower of Joy,” Ser Jaime said.





	The Haunted Tower

Prologue

**

The mountains of Dorne were red as blood, a stark, otherworldly landscape that filled Brienne with awe. The sky was so blue and impossibly vast above them that she couldn’t tear her eyes away. 

They rode in silence, just the two of them; the only sounds the clink of their weapons and armour, the clopping of their horses’ hooves and the jingling of bit and bridle. 

Ser Jaime had been increasingly subdued since they left the well-travelled road behind and ventured into the far heights. Travellers were few on these remote trails, and what few mountain men they encountered were wary: dark-eyed shepherds disappearing into the rocks as they approach; fierce, cruel hill chieftains who stared at them, unblinking, offering no welcome or guest right.

Still, whenever they came upon a stranger, Ser Jaime asked the same question: he was searching for a tower, he said, a lone tower high in the northern mountains, once known as the Tower of Joy. 

** 

1.

**

With Highgarden behind them, Brienne and Ser Jaime set out further into the Reach. Lacking any particular plan, they wandered past vast fields and through fat, complacent villages, following the Mander like driftwood carried on the tide. 

They shared the road with farmers and merchants and wandering minstrels, with drovers and tinkers and lordly retinues. Brienne enjoyed the endless variety of the road. It seemed that every person had a story of their own to tell, from the meanest peasant in the fields to the highborn ladies in their silk-draped litters.

One day they came upon a wagon of travelling whores. The pretty, hard-eyed woman in charge of the group asked if she could hire Brienne and Ser Jaime to escort them to an upcoming festival at Cider Hall. 

“For there’s unscrupulous folk on the road, ser knight,” the woman said. “And women travelling alone would do well to secure what protection they can.” 

Ser Jaime only stared at her, his eyes never straying to the generous amount of bosom exposed by her thin silk gown. “How do you know we can be trusted?” he asked. 

She nodded to his crimson tunic, the bronze fastenings shaped like snarling lion heads. “I know who you are, ser,” she said. “They say many things about you, but I never heard that you raped or abused any woman.” 

Ser Jaime’s smile went razor-sharp. But before he could take further offence, the woman continued. “And your squire there,” she nodded to Brienne, “we’ve heard tales of her, too.” 

And so they travelled in company with a wagon of whores, when Ser Jaime had previously refused to play escort to rich merchants and noblemen alike.

_I’m not a bloody hedge knight,_ he’d told Brienne once. _I don’t need to beg scraps from strangers to earn my keep._ But there had been a sharp edge of irony in his tone. He was a knight of the fabled Kingsguard, as far from a hedge knight as it was possible to become – and the taste of it was bitter in his mouth. 

The women were a frank, earthy lot, largely uneducated, but what they lacked in formal learning they more than made up for in worldly wisdom. They spoke openly of the intricacies of their trade, laughing kindly when Brienne blushed fiery crimson at their shocking frankness; even the youngest of them seemed years older and filled with ancient knowledge. 

They were all fascinated by Ser Jaime. 

“Are you really not fucking him?” a slim, black-haired girl named Tilly asked one morning, while Ser Jaime rode up ahead and out of earshot. “Is it true all the white brothers are sworn to chastity?”

“Chaste? A man like that?” Old Bel, blowsy and stout and with her blonde hair seamed with grey, laughed uproariously. “Oh, I’ll wager he’s got a lover somewhere, for sure.” 

“I never had a white knight before,” Tilly said wistfully. “I bet he’s kind and gallant.” 

“They’re no more kind and gallant than any other man,” Elyn, the leader of the group, said firmly. “All men are the same in the dark.” And then she looked sharply at Tilly. “Don’t you go throwing out lures at that one, girl. He’s not the type.”

(Black-haired Tilly kissed Brienne one evening, a light, sweet press of her lips. Brienne stared at her, eyes wide. “No?” Tilly asked, looking disappointed.)

When they parted ways at Cider Hall, Ser Jaime refused to accept their payment.

**

Still, Old Bel pressed a packet of dried moon tea into Brienne’s hand. 

“A woman can never be too careful,” was all she said.

** 

2.

**

They were just short of Ashford when Ser Jaime finally decided to turn south. 

There was a nasty local conflict brewing. A young highborn maid had run off with – or been abducted by – the son of a neighbouring lord. Some accounts called it a grand romance. Others called it rape. Whatever the truth of it, the maid’s father was demanding vengeance. Both lords were marshaling their forces, calling up their peasant levies and preparing for an ugly war. 

Whether the maid had run off with her lover willingly or had been taken was now wholly irrelevant. Events had overtaken the original cause of the conflict and old feuds and hatreds had risen up to fuel the fire. 

Even the maid herself was no longer central to the issue. 

Hearing all of this in a crowded tavern, Ser Jaime’s mouth curved unhappily and his eyes darkened. He drained his cup of wine and stood, slipping through the crowd with Brienne at his heels, then out to the stables. 

“Ser?” Brienne asked. 

He wasn’t waiting for the stable-boy, but had grasped saddle and tack and was throwing them on to his horse himself. His sweet-tempered palfrey, patient and well-trained, only butted its head into his chest, snorting gently. 

“Old Maester Creylen used to say that history always repeated himself,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I had no idea what he meant, when I was young. But the older I get, the more I –”

He shook his head. “I have no wish to be caught up in – this,” he said. 

** 

When they reached the crossroads under light of the full moon, she looked at him curiously. 

“Where now?” she asked. 

“There is a place, high in the mountains of Dorne,” he said. “A rumour, an old whisper. They say that three Kingsguard died there, in the last, dying days of the rebellion. I have always wanted to –”

He trailed off. Swallowed. 

“Three of my white brothers went with Rhaegar to – take – Lyanna Stark, and never returned. Three went with him to the Trident. They left me alone, in that throne room, and I never had the chance to ask _why._ ”

** 

3\. 

**

They rode south, in search of – Brienne wasn’t sure what. Perhaps no more than Ser Jaime’s ghosts. 

The complacent abundance of the Reach gave way to the crueller lands of the Dornish marches, which gave way in turn to the blood-red peaks of the mountains. 

Ser Jaime stopped wearing his crimson tunic and left off anything that might identify him as a Lannister, buying nondescript brown and grey apparel that would allow him to travel as anonymously as his distinctive looks permitted. 

Brienne knew something of the story behind it. Dornish memories were long, and old hatreds died hard in these fierce, hot-blooded lands. 

Old hatreds. Old loves. Old wounds. Old ghosts. 

They seemed to hover close around Brienne and Ser Jaime, the further they went into the mountains. 

Every night, when they made camp, Ser Jaime spoke of the past. More than he’d ever revealed to her before, it spilled out of him even without the aid of drunkenness; it seemed almost as though he needed to purge himself of some bitter poison, and she was the only one with whom he could share his thoughts. 

Brienne listened, rapt, as he spoke of the last fading years of the Targaryen dynasty. 

Of his youth squiring at Crakehall, and the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood where he came to the attention of Ser Arthur Dayne. 

Of Lord Whent’s great tourney at Harrenhal, where so many paths crossed and so many stories began. He spoke of what it had felt like to be raised to the Kingsguard, the white cloak like a charge from the Warrior himself, before the king revealed it to be no more than a spiteful blow against his father. 

“And then he forbade me to take part in the jousting and sent me away,” he said, his smile cutting and bitter. “None could have taken me that day, and still he sent me away. If I’d won the tourney, instead of the prince –”

He spoke of Rhaegar, melancholy and noble and ultimately doomed, upon whom they had pinned all their hopes. “Everyone knew the king was mad, but we all trusted that Rhaegar meant to take action, either to depose him or to curb his power in some way. Before he left for the Trident,” he said, his mouth twisted wryly, “he promised me that things would change, after his return.”

But he didn’t return, Brienne remembered. He never returned, and the king spiraled further and further into madness. 

**

Finally, after long days of burning heat and hard travel, they came upon a ruined, blackened tower. 

“The Tower of Joy,” Ser Jaime said.

**

There were a number of stone cairns at the foot of the tower, three of them larger than the others. Old, weathered shields were laid over the stones, the painted sigils still faintly visible: the burning white watchtower of the Hightowers; the black-winged bat of House Whent, and the sword and falling star of House Dayne. 

“Here is where they fell,” Ser Jaime said. “Far from King’s Landing, three of the greatest knights of the Kingsguard sat out the rebellion defending one girl, leaving me to stand watch alone over the Mad King.” 

He sounded – bewildered. Angry, almost. 

“When Rhaegar died, I looked for their coming. As the king’s madness grew deeper, as he began to burn men, women and even children alike, I stood there, alone, and waited – but still they did not come.” 

Brienne heard the old, haunted desperation in his voice. He was only a boy, she realized suddenly. No more than seven and ten. Barely older than she was now. 

“The duty of the Kingsguard is to guard the king, not judge him,” Ser Jaime continued. “Serve him without question. Keep his secrets. But there came a point where I could no longer watch unseeing, where I had to choose. And where were they, my white brothers?” 

“Here,” he said. “Long after Rhaegar’s death, even after Aerys’ death, they stayed here, watching over Lyanna Stark – and here they died.”

In the echoing silence, the wind swirling over the dry ground was loud in her ears. A hunting hawk cried, far above. 

“I did the best I could,” Ser Jaime said finally. He was no longer speaking to her, Brienne thought, but to the three stone cairns, silent and unresponsive. “He was going to burn the city to ashes. Tell me what you would have done in my place.”

**

4\. 

**

Afterwards, they explored the tower, ruined as it was. 

After the fire, after years of exposure and scavengers, there was nothing of significance left: a long wooden table and some benches, splintered and broken. In the upper chamber, the ruins of a bed and – Brienne saw with a frown – what might have been a cradle. 

Brienne thought she could guess why three of the Kingsguard – who all seemed to be have been more loyal to Rhaegar than to Aerys – were holding Lyanna Stark so far from the fighting, even after Rhaegar’s death, even after Aerys’ death and the end of the rebellion. 

Perhaps that would explain why they had fought to the death to defend her. 

She did not think that Ser Jaime could see anything past his own ghosts. 

Perhaps that was for the best. 

“Tell me about them,” she said, when they emerged into the sunlight once more. “Tell me about your brothers.”

There was a skin of sour Dornish wine in her saddlebags. She nudged Ser Jaime down to sit in the shade of an old stone wall, his eyes distant and red-rimmed, and handed him the wine. 

Still staring into the distant past, he took a long drink, before finally tipping his head back and sighing. 

_He was going to burn the city to ashes._ Brienne remembered his raw voice. _Tell me what you would have done._

“What was ser Arthur Dayne like?” she prompted him again. 

Sitting in the dirt against that stone wall, alone in that haunted valley with the ruined tower behind them, they shared the skin of wine between them. And slowly, as Ser Jaime grew more and more drunk, he looked into the past and told her about Aerys’ Seven. 

Ser Arthur Dayne had been the best and noblest knight of his generation. Ser Oswell Whent had possessed a dark sense of humour. Ser Gerold Hightower had been doughty and strong despite his age. Prince Lewyn Martell had been swift and cunning and had taught Jaime to use a spear in the Dornish style. Ser Barristan had been a bastion of integrity, until he had bent the knee to Robert Baratheon on the Trident. Ser Jonothor Darry had been a good and honourable man. 

It was clear that Ser Jaime still saw them – with the exception of Ser Barristan – through the eyes of the boy he had once been. 

“Those so-honourable white knights,” he said, his voice only slightly slurred. “Yes, and myself among them. We all stood by, watching unblinking while Aerys burned everyone who opposed him. And then we all stood by and listened as he ravaged the Queen, afterwards.” 

He tipped his head towards Brienne, squinting at her. “Does that shock you, Lady Brienne?” he asked. 

Brienne frowned. “But –” 

“‘Not against him,’ they told me. Protect the weak and the innocent, but not against him. Protect all women, protect the royal family – but not against him.”

He drank again. 

“My brothers managed to escape Aerys,” he said, “but not me. In the end, the white cloak became a cage. I swore so many vows – sacred, honourable vows – but I couldn’t possibly keep them all. And when the time came, I had to choose.” 

_He was going to burn the city to ashes._

“Tell me,” Brienne said. 

**

As the sun sank behind the mountains, Ser Jaime finally told her why he had broken his sacred vow and killed the king he had sworn to protect.

**Author's Note:**

> The movements of the Kingsguard after Rhaegar and Lyanna eloped together and during Robert's rebellion are a bit more complicated than this. At various periods, Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell were both telling Jaime to watch/listen and do nothing. I believe Ser Arthur stayed with Lyanna the whole time. But in the end, it all still came down to Jaime, left alone with the Mad King.


End file.
